Addicted
by plentysaid
Summary: They all had their addictions - mostly hidden from the rest of the team. A case means that for some of the team, their addictions are on display for everyone to see. Multiple pairings throughout. Rated T. May go up in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation.  
><strong>W. H. Auden<strong>

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><p>Rain pelted down on the stern-faced profiler as he made his way through the dark, empty streets, his jacket wrapped around his lean frame and his hands nestled deep in his pockets, protecting himself from the brutal wind that was attacking him as he made his let his legs carry him. Aaron Hotchner knew that he shouldn't be walking this obscure path this late at night, in the weather; not because it was dangerous. But because he knew that his end destination was somewhere he shouldn't be going. Not again. Not tonight.<p>

Aaron found himself walking down this route, more often than he had liked to ever think. This... Need that he had to fulfil made him feel weak, but it helped him.

After all, everyone has their addictions. He knew Reid's was dilaudid, and no matter how many times he tried to get off it, a case would come and trigger his need to use again. He thought back to the young doctor and remembered the time he had caught him, in the middle of the FBI's restrooms, the bottle in one hand, the tourniquet on his arm and the needle being pressed to his skin, and Aaron did what he had to do, he took it away, scolding the young man as he had time and time before about work, but this was different than those times. This was because he was posing a threat to himself and to those around him.

Gideon was his trigger; Gideon's departure, the letter. He felt like a hypocrite for taking the one thing that he needed away from him, when he was walking straight into his. He remembered the mood swing that day, every comment that he had made towards the young man was met with anger, until he had no choice but to send him home, where he knew he was handing him an invitation to take his anger out on himself by flooding poison through his veins.

JJ and Emily both shared a similar addiction, even if there's less detrimental to their health. Shopping. It was something that had obviously become their release. The words always slipped from their lips when they got back to Quantico, tired and wondering what the next case to be put on their desk was going to be. The only damage this addiction was doing was to their bank balance. It was their time where they were no longer FBI agents, and instead, two friends who were gossiping over what shoes would be more suitable with the new outfits they had purchased over the past months.

Derek's addiction was Penelope; something that everyone had known from the moment that she had walked into the BAU – from the first time he called her 'baby girl'. Their relationship was kept hidden behind their painful flirting. Most nights they would find themselves in each other's arms, sometimes in passion, and others in comfort. They had tried to fight away their urges, much like Spencer, and much like Aaron had, but it was human contact which pushed them together, made need and lust convey itself as love.

Aaron was barely aware that he had reached his destination, but looking up at the apartment building, he realised his need was growling deep in his chest, threatening to burst. He walked up the three flights of stairs. The first few times he had done this, he counted the steps out of nerves, 84 steps in total, now the nerves manifested as a growing desperation, he knocked on the door, his body shivering from being out for so long.

He waited for the response, anxiously, he knew that it would come soon, he hoped it would; and when it did, he wasn't surprised by the greeting.

"You're not supposed to be here, Aaron,"

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><p><em>This is my first Criminal Minds fic - hopefully not my last. I hope everyone enjoyed it. It will be continued probably as a series, progressing through from mid-season three onward. Rossi has joined the team in this; I know he isn't mentioned, but he will come around in later chapters. <em>


	2. Chapter 2

She is drawn to the fire, some people will never learn. She will walk through the fire and let it burn.  
><strong>Spike<strong>

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><p>A glass of whiskey was handed to Aaron; he took it, trying to hide the tell-tale signs that he was nervous. A slight tremor was in his hand, his breathing had sped up. He looked at the older man slowly, his face feigned boredom, he was annoyed t hat Aaron had bothered him.<p>

"I tell you time and time again that I don't want anything to do with you, but you still come back, don't you?" His voice was bitter, a tone that Aaron had heard him use on many a suspect, but never him. Not until tonight.

"Just one last time," his voice akin to desperate, he put his glass down on the side and turned to face him slowly. "I need this." A shrill laugh escaped the other man's mouth, and Aaron had no choice but to look away from him.

"The only thing you need is to leave. It's for the best," he was getting frustrated; it was this anger that got the better of him, that forced him to resign. He tensed his jaw, moving closer to him. "I'm sure you can find this somewhere else, you don't need it from me."

Aaron looked down, he was being mocked, he hated the feeling of defeat. It was one that made his skin crawl, made him feel as though he wasn't as good as he could be. "It's not the same," he breathed out and was laughed at once more. "Please, just one last time."

"One last time? It was one last time last week, and then the time before that. You've had your last times," he edged closer to him; Aaron knew he was breaking him down slowly.

"Please," he begged, hating the desperation in his tone, he shouldn't have been able to fall into this trap again, but the pleading had worked. The first blow came to his lower right side, hard, knocking the wind out of him, pushing himself against the wall. Another fell just above when his knees buckled and he was on the floor – at his mercy.

"You'll never learn, will you?" He spits, his foot connecting with his hip, a loud thump as shoe hit skin. "You hide behind the suit, Aaron, because you're still that scared seven year-old boy again." Another kick connected with his gut, Aaron coughed out pain, his body writhing away from the aggressive hits, trying to protect himself instinctively, but he didn't want that. He still needed this. Tears formed at his eyes as he clenched them shut, he could already feel the bruises forming, could already imagine the red marks against his skin, he took the hits repetitively, hitting back over the marks that had previously healed. After five minutes, it stopped and he looked up at the older man, hovering above him, his face seething with anger.

"You've become too emotional, Hotch," he said. Taking the glasses off the table and walking out of the room. There would be no goodbye between them. There never was.

Struggling, Aaron pulled himself to his feet, his body screaming out in pain, he couldn't breathe, or at least that's what it felt like. He let out a groan and dragged himself towards the door, not looking into the kitchen where he could hear the older man pacing; he opened the door and found it difficult to keep himself upright. He made his way home, back through the desolate streets once more and tried desperately to ignore the pain that was filling him. He walked faster, on the way back he always felt more vulnerable, as though all the eyes were on him, they knew where he had gone. No one knew, of course. He had made sure of that.

As he approached his house, something didn't feel right; he had a strange sense that he was being watched. He turned slowly, one hand on his abdomen and looked around; the street was empty, as it always was this time of night. He shrugged the feeling off as being tired and entered his lonely home to mull over the last few hours, and why he needed to go to him once more.

Shaking hands, his body was sweating profusely and his body felt as though he was on fire. Spencer was slumped down in his armchair, a book beside him (Although, the contents behind the cover were something different than words. He knew that nobody would think twice if he had a book sat on the side every now and then; and nobody came over to his apartment anyway to be able to see the hollowed out book) and the sterile needle next to him. He argued with himself that he didn't need to use it, not again, but he did need it. It would stop the sweating, stop the constant itching that he felt, stop how flushed he was feeling, and maybe control the nightmares about the victims he couldn't save, about the ones that had died by suicide by cop – and the ones that he, himself had to shoot.

One last fix and he could make sure his pain went away.

He needed the escape from reality once again. Spencer found himself scratching the side of his temple, trembling and moving his hand down to his forearm, clawing at his skin. He needed the feeling to stop; needed to be able to feel comfortable in his own skin once again. He reached out for the needle and the small vial, trying desperately to control his hands so he could get the release he needed.

Chuckles filled the room, the light from the small television set flickering over their faces. Penelope rested her head against Derek's chest, his hand on the small of her back, his thumb rubbing in small circles, a grin on both of their faces as they watched a comedy film they had rented. Content in each other's arms, they held onto each other as they did most nights when Derek had returned from a case, when an unsub had been caught and there was now a town that could rest easy at night knowing there wasn't someone on the streets they had to fear – or at least one less person for them to fear.

Derek took Penelope's hand and kissed her knuckles softly, keeping her close to him. A comfort for both of them – an eraser of the mind for the horrific images that cluttered her screens as she helped the team catch the unsub. She rested her head on his chest, her glasses haphazardly falling to the sides as she did, but she didn't care.

All she cared about were the arms wrapped around her that would protect her from the nightmares that the photos would have given her otherwise.

Photos covered his walls, of all of them. At various crime scenes, in their own homes, and even with their vices. Agent Hotchner, his body covered in bruises. Dr. Reid, the track marks up his arm, being hidden by his long shirts, his cardigans; photos of SSA Morgan and Penelope Garcia, his 'baby girl', the endearments, everything was framed on his wall. He had the past few months of their lives documented; and soon, very soon, their dirty little secrets will be placed on the table for everyone to see, he thought bitterly to himself as he added another few photos of Agent Hotchner to his wall, exiting the apartment building, pain written all over his face, doubled over as he was trying to mask the pain.

He knew his photos were louder than the lies they all told themselves and their team members. They'd be unmasked soon enough.


End file.
